


Chasseuse

by silkinsilence



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: "Hunting", (Just a bit of those), Bloodplay, Cunnilingus, F/F, Face-Sitting, Hunting, Implied Mariticide, Knifeplay, Okay There's a LITTLE Plot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Predator/Prey, Rough Sex, it's fine though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-10 23:08:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20143507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkinsilence/pseuds/silkinsilence
Summary: ‍‡ Amélie wants a hunt. Sombra wants Amélie. They both get what they want.‍





	Chasseuse

**Author's Note:**

> Years ago someone on the kink meme posted a prompt for "The Most Dangerous Game," but Spiderbyte, and the idea has been with me ever since. So this is basically "The Most Dangerous Game," but if Rainsford and Zaroff fucked at the end. Actually, that would drastically improve the story. Get on my level, Richard Connell.
> 
> Is this an AU? Are they roleplaying? We just don't know.
> 
> I did not expect this to be this long. About 5000 of the words are the porn. Click here to skip to the porn (you're welcome).
> 
> The dogs are Borzois. This is not important whatsoever to the contents of the fic, but it's important to me that you imagine the dogs as Borzois.

The wine swirling in its glass is a deep, lovely red, but redder still are the lips that take a sip. Sombra’s eyes fixate on the sharp bow of the upper lip. She is unable to look away, her heart in her throat and her head filled with cotton. The glass lowers and the tip of a tongue emerges between those perfectly sculpted lips to clean them. When the woman seated opposite her lifts her white napkin to dab at an imaginary drip, Sombra drinks in the sight of her thin fingers and her nails, painted burgundy to match the rest of her.

Red like blood.

“Is it to your liking?” Madame Lacroix asks, smiling in a way that captivates Sombra all over again.

“It is,” she says, speaking not at all of the duck on her plate or the wine in her own glass; it could be mud and her answer would be the same.

“I am glad to hear it. It’s been a terribly long while since I had guests,” Lacroix sighs. “I do get lonely, even with my sweet boys to keep me company.”

There was nothing _sweet _about the baying of hounds that greeted Sombra when she arrived at the chateau, but she has no doubt they would eat tenderly out of the palm of their mistress’s hand. Who wouldn’t? 

Lacroix’s end of the table is positioned directly in front of the great marble fireplace, above which hangs a larger-than-life portrait of a mustached man, himself surrounded by dogs, perhaps the same ones who welcomed her so uproariously. Sombra gestures toward the painting with her own wine glass.

“Can I ask what happened to your husband?”

“You may,” Lacroix says, still smiling, still enchanting. “It was a hunting accident, a handful of years ago. It still pains me to think of it.”

Her face says nothing of pain. A brief image flashes through Sombra’s head: the painted man screaming while his hounds turn on him and eat him alive. She shivers; she can’t help it. This place has put her in a weird mood, at once on-edge and fiercely, ravenously _hungry._

“He was a hunter?”

“_Oui. _We both were.” She laughs a little at the surprise that must have shown on Sombra’s face. “You shouldn’t assume, Ms. Colomar. Gérard found it an entertaining pastime, but for me...it consumed me.”

Sombra is paying rather less attention to the words than she should be. As she speaks, Madame Lacroix’s face seems to _open _somehow, her eyes gleaming and her lips curling upward in a smile much more genuine than her previous ones. It is the face of a woman speaking about something she loves.

“The technique is, of course, important; the gun and how it is handled, and the skill to follow an animal across terrain, day or night, but that is not what captured me. It was the _intimacy _of it. To look into another creature’s eyes at the moment that life shifts into death; to see the surrender, the loss of power...oh, I cannot describe it in words.”

Madame Lacroix’s eyes flutter closed, and she parts her lips enough to show her tongue tracing across the tips of her teeth, and Sombra is captured as well.

“And the thrill was worth a few...accidents?” she asks, nodding again toward the painting. Lacroix’s smile becomes tighter around the edges, but her eyes are alight with poorly-restrained amusement.

“Risks are necessary when one loves something. And my Gérard would say the same, if he were here. He could never deny me something I wanted, no matter how risky.

“But you’re the same, aren’t you, Ms. Colomar? You like how power feels in your hands, in your veins. You like control.”

“Maybe. I’ve never really hunted animals before.”

“Oh. Animals...” Lacroix lets her voice trail away. At the far end of the table, she stands, and Sombra learns again how tall she is, and how well her embroidered silk blouse fits her, and how long and beautiful her hair is as it drops down her back like an inky waterfall. She takes slow steps down the table to where Sombra sits, and Sombra leans back in her chair and cannot tear her eyes away. Her mouth is dry and her breath is caught in her throat, and it takes several seconds of her heart pounding for her to realize that she feels like a rabbit cowering under the gaze of a fox.

Predator. Prey.

Lacroix reaches her, and Sombra’s stupor is interrupted when her hostess simply picks up the bottle of wine to refill her glass. Sombra doesn’t remember draining it, but the motion lets her gaze linger on the pale line of Madame Lacroix’s neck down to her collarbone and the swell of her bust.

How Sombra wishes to be a huntress, in that moment.

“Animals have lost their appeal for me,” Lacroix continues. She sets Sombra’s cup delicately back in its position, her nails gently clinking against the glass, but she does not return to her side of the table. Instead she leans against the wood and looks down at Sombra with that mysterious, vaguely amused smile. Sombra tries to keep her gaze on her face, but when Lacroix’s eyes are so piercing and the rest of her is so lovely, it is no small feat.

“You’re serving them.” Sombra points out the obvious because she doesn’t know what else to say. She gestures at her plate and watches Lacroix’s nostrils gently flare.

“_Oui, _I eat them. I will hunt them, too. But they are not a challenge, Ms. Colomar, and I need a challenge. You must understand that.”

Sombra does.

“Even Talon’s assignments have lost their charm. _One shot, one kill, _and it is always so easy. They drop like flies. It used to make me feel alive, you know. Now I feel...”

Her voice trails away. She stares down at her hands as if puzzled to see them there. In her evening attire and with her hair loose and makeup exquisite, it is difficult to believe she is really talking about hunting, let alone killing. Incongruity; isn’t that the beauty of the woman they call the Widowmaker in the first place?

“I feel bored,” Lacroix finishes, and the perfect skin between her eyebrows furrows with the vocalized realization. “I need...stimulation.”

Oh, Sombra can imagine what kind of stimulation she needs. She can imagine how big and empty this chateau must be with Gérard Lacroix dead and nothing but the dogs for company. She can imagine how pretty Lacroix would look naked, her breasts in Sombra’s mouth, the sweet thatch of hair between her thighs. She can imagine how this haughty aristocrat would look broken down and _begging—_

But Sombra has not been paying good enough attention, because then Lacroix is leaning down so that their faces are almost on the same level, and her eyes are bright and hungry like a cat’s.

“You are clever,” she says quietly, a grudging compliment.

Sombra does not feel clever in that moment. Her thoughts are sluggish like molasses, her mind catching on pleasant images and refusing to be brought out of its fantasy. She has not yet realized exactly what Lacroix is saying, does not realize, in fact, until she speaks again.

“My chateau is quite old-fashioned, you know, Ms. Colomar. There is electricity only for the lights and heating. Your world is leagues away. There is nothing here for you to take control of, nothing to bend to your will with code. And here you are, unarmed.”

Sombra blinks. She becomes aware that her heart is pounding as her brain tries desperately to catch up.

“I’m not your guest,” she says, and it is very obvious when she says it aloud. Still she cannot tear her eyes from the pale skin of Lacroix’s throat and collarbones. “I’m your prey.”

The word thrills her more than it should. Still the real world feels like a distant dream; here and now she is playing a part, and as much as she would like to be the huntress, the inverse suddenly does not sound so horrible, not when Lacroix’s eyes are alight with fire and her lips are red like they’ve been painted in her husband’s blood.

“Well,” Lacroix sighs, “if you’ll run for me.”

“What’s in it for me?” Sombra asks, the question she’s been repeating since she was a child, the question that’s gotten her into and out of scrapes with all varieties of hunters under the sun. But never any so poised and ruthless and beautiful as the Widowmaker. Never any that made her wonder if being caught would be such a bad thing after all.

“You don’t just wish to do me a favor?” Lacroix asks in mock surprise, her perfect lips parting and her eyebrows raising as if she’s genuinely insulted. Then she smiles a little at her own joke and appears to consider the question for a few moments.

“If you can make it three days, you can ask me for anything you like, and I will provide if it is within my power to do so.”

She leans down again, this time with no pretense of refilling Sombra’s glass. Her hand, cool, rests on Sombra’s shoulder, and her lips graze her ear.

“I will be yours, Ms. Colomar. Is that agreeable to you?”

As if her answer isn’t predetermined. As if this chateau and its bewitching mistress haven’t cast a spell over Sombra that forces reason from her mind in lieu of hazy fantasy. Sombra feels unreal; she isn’t convinced that she won’t awaken in her own bed any second now. But while she is dreaming, she will indulge.

“Very agreeable,” she says, smirking, and reaches for her wine glass.

She is, Madame Lacroix will find, _very _hard to catch.

* * *

A day later, when the chateau and its pleasant company have been replaced by the sky and soil and trees, and when there is no wine to drown her in its haze, Sombra feels as if she may have overestimated her abilities.

It is true that she spent much of her childhood (and adulthood, who is she kidding) evading pursuers, but her girlhood playground was streets and alleys, walls and windows, brick and concrete and adobe. As she grew, that shifted to machines and networks and virtual worlds, all ones and zeros.

Now she is making her way through the woods of an estate in France, and the nearest form of civilization is the manor she is steadily running from.

Her hostess and would-be huntress was generous enough to provide her appropriate shoes and clothing, but every time a fallen leaf crunches underfoot, Sombra wonders if she would have been more comfortable in her own garb. At least she blends into her surroundings now, as long as she keeps her hair tucked into her hood.

Lacroix told her she would begin her hunt at dusk, but when the sky is filled with heavy, dark clouds, Sombra doesn’t know how long she has left. In any case, her little ruse has been prepared, and there is nothing left to do but to crouch in the brush and hope that whatever bug bites she’s accruing don’t itch too badly.

If they were playing a different sort of game, one in the realm of bits and bytes and energy, the victory would be hers in an instant, but while some of the tactics translate, the skill does not. It is difficult to pull herself up into the tree, and the bark scrapes her exposed hands raw as she climbs higher and higher. The foliage is thick enough to provide good cover, but a breeze keeps the air fresh and she can see the roof of the chateau rising from its solitary position on the lake.

It is beautiful, she decides, even if it’s not quite for her. A dose of nature is healthy every once in a while, and this place is pristine.

She rests her back against the trunk and wonders if Lacroix will fall for the fake trail. Sombra may be the prey, but she will be on the lookout for any opportunity she gets to disarm her hostess and huntress. She lets her eyes drift closed and passes the time imagining what all that dark hair would look like pooled on the forest floor. If Lacroix were an animal, she would be some kind of large cat, solitary, graceful, and deadly. A jaguar, perhaps, or a panther. How cruel even house cats can be, Sombra knows, letting mice run only to catch them again, and again, and again, all for the thrill of it.

Her imaginings are interrupted by a rustling. She jolts upright and stares into the dense growth, wishing her eyes could somehow pierce the green and brown that surrounds her. It could just be the wind, or a wild animal, but the sound gets louder, and then abruptly she can make out unnatural colors in among the subtle forest hues.

Sombra cannot help but look, and want to look more. Gone is the evening attire of the woman who served her dinner the night previous; Lacroix is every inch the huntress now. Her hair is tied up in a high ponytail that emphasizes her narrow jaw. She wears a high-collared black jacket embroidered with gold and silver over matching dark pants and a red vest. Her boots come up to the knee, accentuating her shapely calves.

And the gun, Widow’s Kiss, perched on her shoulder as her keen eyes scan the undergrowth.

Lacroix stops still where the tangles of brush thin, just a few meters from the base of Sombra’s tree. Sombra presses herself down against the bark, hoping that her clothes and the foliage will do an adequate job of camouflaging her.

Abruptly, Lacroix speaks.

“I wanted a challenge, Ms. Colomar.”

The gun is off her shoulder and fired so quickly that Sombra has no time to react, even if she knew how. The crack splits the air and she wonders for a few moments if she’s already dead and her brain just hasn’t caught up, but then she looks up and sees the smoldering hole barely two inches above her head.

“Do better,” Lacroix says evenly. She has turned her back and begun walking slowly back the way she came.

Sombra is frozen. Only the thudding of her heart assures her that she is still alive. Until this moment she has not wholly comprehended the situation. Lacroix could have killed her with ease, and Sombra has little doubt that she would have. She was cocky, over-confident, foolishly assuming that life and death were not really the gambling chips of this game.

But it is not the powerful desire to escape with her life that grips her next. Instead she is overcome with something like anger, a burning urge to _win. _She will evade Lacroix, evade the woman so confident in her own skills, and claim her reward. She will prove that her own talents are not mere tricks and toys convenient to Talon. Her mind is sharp, _sharper, _and she will ensure Lacroix knows that.

She will win the hunt.

* * *

The trap is simple but elegant, if she does say so herself. Making her way through the forest is less comfortable with her coat shredded to weave a makeshift rope, but it will be worth it. It’s a honeypot, not all that different from writing a program after all.

Her heart is pounding, has hardly let up since the night previous. It is fear or excitement or both, just adrenaline pounding through her. Maybe Lacroix is right; maybe this _is _fun. Maybe this is the most fun Sombra’s had in a while. She’s danced around the spider and watched her from a distance, and now their orbits have brought them together. Whatever the outcome of their game, Sombra senses that once the periapsis ends, they won’t drift so close again.

She managed a few rocky hours of sleep in the very early morning, dug out in a poor shelter under a shelf of rock. She dreamed of a panther that played with her as if she was a mouse, batted her back and forth under her paws, left gashes in her skin that felt like playful scratches but left her open and bloody.

She awoke rather less than rested, more strung-out than ever, feeling the hot coalescence of all the things she feels about Amélie Lacroix, and poured all that frenetic energy into this, into victory.

Now dusk is falling again, and the weather is clearer than the previous night. She can see the brilliant white-gold light of the horizon where the sun has disappeared, and the clouds shot through with deep red. About time now. She listens intently for the sound of dogs, but she hears nothing. Is Lacroix alone again tonight, confident in just her rifle and her abilities?

Granted, given how she performs on Talon assignments, she hardly seems to need the dogs in the first place. Perhaps they are simply window dressing, or just here to fill the vast emptiness of the chateau and all its land. Either way, Sombra can’t complain; she would be much more uneasy with a pack of hounds on her tail.

She presses herself against the rock and breathes in and out as slowly as she can, trying to become invisible. Any minute now. Any minute.

Lacroix materializes out of the shadowy woods the same way she did the night previous, her pace slow and measured, her keen eyes taking in her surroundings. She studies the ground in front of her intensely, and then the growth at eye level. Sombra can only imagine she’s taking in signs that are too faint for the uninitiated to detect.

Her heart is racing. Lacroix is less than a hundred meters from her, and slowly closing in on the patch of dirt where leaves have been pressed down and wood shavings left behind. Sombra left them there, the castoffs of sharpened sticks she carefully stored elsewhere. She left them there on purpose.

Lacroix is skilled, and the honeypot depends on subtlety. An obvious opening rouses suspicion. Sombra’s mouth is horribly dry, but she doesn’t even dare swallow. Lacroix needs only take a few more steps. Only a handful more. Four…two…

_Snap—_

Lacroix lets out a little noise of surprise as the trap springs around her. Widow’s Kiss tumbles from her hands onto the leaves, out of reach. Her arms are bound by her side, her legs left flailing as she tries uselessly to free herself from her sudden restraints.

Sombra would be lying if she claimed she isn’t enjoying the show, at least a little. But if Lacroix continues to struggle, she will undoubtedly be able to pull the makeshift rope from the branches and saplings to which it’s secured, so Sombra takes the opportunity to straighten, leave the rock behind her, and saunter across the distance separating them.

Lacroix raises her head and regards her with narrowed eyes and a snarl. The sight sends a thrill through Sombra. Is this what Lacroix spoke of the first night, the intimacy of seeing one’s prey at one’s mercy?

Sombra enjoys it. She enjoys feeling like a predator, this powerful and exquisite woman her prey.

She enjoys it a bit too much, and forgets that a jaguar keeps its claws even when caught in a trap. She is a foot away from Lacroix, ready to crow her victory, when the rope snaps and she realizes that she has, once again, woefully underestimated her opponent.

Lacroix is slim, but the force of her body still slams Sombra’s back against the nearest tree hard enough that the breath is pushed from her. She pants in a desperate attempt to get her lungs to inflate again while Lacroix keeps her pressed there with her own body. Sombra is not too distracted by the lack of air to savor the feeling of the form pressed against her own.

Lacroix raises the slim hunting knife, the tool she used to cut herself free. Sombra’s gaze darts between the silver blade and her captor’s gleaming eyes. Any sardonic comment she might wish to let out is stifled by her own wheezing breaths.

“You are so cocky,” Lacroix says, and leans in. The knife rests under Sombra’s eye, and she cannot help but try to flinch away. There is nowhere to go. Lacroix presses it harder, the cold edge hard and unrelenting. Her glare has vanished, replaced instead with the interest of a cat playing with its dinner, with the dilated pupils to match.

Perhaps that is the crux of the problem, really. How can Sombra be expected to treat this hunt as a life-or-death matter when it feels much more like a prelude to something else entirely?

“I want you afraid,” Lacroix says. “I want you running scared.”

“Thought—you wanted me smart?” Her breath is still too ragged for the words to sound as confident as she wants them to.

“You are always smart-mouthed,” Lacroix says, and the knife bites. Sombra hisses. She can see the red line right at the bottom of her vision as the blood fills up and pools over and drips down her cheek. “I want you to take me seriously. I could have killed you so many times already. You believe you are invincible, and that will destroy you.”

Sombra says nothing. She has been told this before, has thought it herself. But she’s still here. She hasn’t paid the piper yet. Yeah, she’s cocky. She’s arrogant and selfish and destined to doom herself; she’s heard it all before. But if death is at the hands of Amélie Lacroix, her rifle or her knife, she can be happy with that.

“It will,” Lacroix repeats, and she cuts down, slicing a line into Sombra’s cheek. Fuck, it hurts. “You should have killed me when you had the chance.”

“Not gonna kill you,” Sombra wheezes. The trail of blood drips down, down, onto her lip. “You’re my reward.”

“As I said,” Lacroix says. “_Cocky._”

She smiles, and the knife presses against Sombra’s throat, hard enough to break skin but nothing more.

Then the pressure is gone, and Lacroix is turning her back and striding away to retrieve her rifle. Sombra bends over and lets her chest heave as her lungs slowly, reluctantly let oxygen back into them.

“Tomorrow,” Lacroix says, “the dogs.”

It is less a threat and more a promise. Sombra’s heart thuds along. She watches the way Lacroix steps along the forest floor like a doe, seeming to hardly touch it. The blood drips down her cheek, and she licks it from her lips, and wishes it was someone else’s.

* * *

Okay, so she’s arrogant, and she’s never met a problem she couldn’t find a way _around _or _through, _and she certainly wants to prove _something _to the Widowmaker, but one thing she isn’t is suicidal. Or stupid; make that two things.

She still isn’t entirely convinced of Lacroix’s resolution to follow through with actually killing her, but she’s also unsure how far she’s willing to go to test said resolution. The previous two days were obviously Lacroix toying with her, but bringing the hounds into the picture changes the game. No matter their mistress’s motivations, Sombra has little doubt that the dogs won’t hesitate to deal with her. She’s not much of a dog lover; hasn’t been since early run-ins with police Xolos back home.

She needs to admit to herself that she lacks the skill to evade a pack of dogs in a hunt through the woods. The smart thing to do would just be to clear the estate entirely, assuming she could make her way off the acres of Guillard land before Lacroix set out again.

But she still wants to win.

Swimming is something she never had much use for in her childhood, even on those rare occasions she bothered to go to a public beach. Drowning remains something of an acute fear for her, the threat of losing oxygen while her lungs scream and her whole body protests. But it’s probably a better way to go than being ripped apart by dogs.

The afternoon sun is drifting lower and lower. Ducks and geese and a single pair of swans drift idly about the lake, paying little attention to the odd creature making herself at home among them.

Sombra stays in the shadows by the lakeside, hoping that the bushes and the overhanging trees provide cover. Her feet squish in the muck at the bottom, making her more and more squeamish with every step. She feels plants and who knows what else brushing against her, but the water is too opaque to see through.

If (when) she makes it through this, she’s never going to go swimming again.

She wonders if Lacroix will fall for her little ruse this time.

The sun is red and brushing the horizon and the sky is golden and pink and purple when an unholy sound splits the air: the barking and howling of at least a half-dozen dogs, all half-mad for a chase. The baying sends shivers up and down Sombra’s spine and she thinks again of the portrait hanging in the chateau. Exactly what kind of _hunting accident _claimed the life of Gérard Lacroix?

A fate she will avoid. Sombra grimaces as the mud squishes under her sodden shoes, as she makes her way away from the bushes and the relative cover of the lakeside. The sunset glimmers across the water, and she feels so horribly, horribly exposed. But from where she is, behind the chateau, on the opposite side from the bridge that connects the island to the surrounding forests, Lacroix cannot presently see her.

Sombra is afraid. Her heart is pounding. If she splashes, she is certain she will be found. She imagines the dogs swimming toward her, their jaws wide and hungry. But if she stays at the edge of the lake, her fate is just as assured.

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and sinks underneath to swim in the darkness.

The movements are awkward and uncoordinated; she only knows what she’s picked up second-hand. She kicks her legs without breaking the surface and moves her arms in jerky circles. When her lungs begin to feel squeezed, her whole body protesting the lack of air, she tries to straighten, but the lakebed is gone from beneath her feet.

Running out of air is a strangely familiar feeling for her. Whenever she uses her translocator, it is similar, though even more disorienting: for a few instants she feels torn in every direction, all her senses shut down, her brain screaming for normalcy, before she finds herself again. But the relief always comes. Here, she could drift under the surface forever without finding it.

She must avoid the splashing of a loud surfacing. She rolls onto her back and pushes _upward, _like a skier caught in an avalanche, desperately hoping the way she’s picked is correct.

Her nose breaches the surface and she breathes in desperately, letting just her face out. She can’t hear the dogs. She can see the chateau still ahead, and the brilliant sun.

The next strokes are easier; coming up again more so. She passes ducks who give her quizzical looks, unsure what to make of this awkward swimming mammoth. She feels fish brush her feet. She feels weeds and sand and debris and who knows what swirling in the water. And then, eventually, mud again, and stones, and she pushes herself out of the water and onto the island that houses Lacroix’s manor.

She catches her breath slowly, the swimming having taken more effort than she noticed while in the water. She can’t even hear the dogs anymore. The sun has disappeared behind the horizon and the sky is darkening.

She wants to laugh with exhilaration and she would, if silence wasn’t still important. She gazes up at the old house in front of her. Maybe it’s beautiful, but it’s not her style.

_My chateau is quite old-fashioned. There is electricity only for the lights and the heating._

And she hadn’t lied; Sombra would have known if she had, as she has quite literally a sixth sense for these things. Just old-fashioned locks. Not even security cameras. Nothing to tell the house’s mistress that her prey has snuck to the center of the web.

Sombra’s heart pounds, but this time it is not with fear.

* * *

Irritating.

Olivia Colomar, the little brat who styles herself _Sombra _like a figure straight out of a bad spy movie, is irritating. She is a constant thorn in Amélie’s and Talon’s sides, poking her nose where it doesn’t belong, always asking questions.

She has the smirk and the confidence of someone standing atop the world, but more _irritating _is that she also has the skills to back it up.

Amélie wanted to remove that smirk. She wanted fear in those eyes instead. She wanted—ah, how a thrill goes through her when she thinks of it. What bliss, to see Sombra dead at her feet, a hole in her head. How lovely to see her blood and that precious, always-quick brain leaking across the ground. Imagining it alone is enough to make her legs tremble and her eyes glaze.

Sombra would be most beautiful like that, and then perhaps, with her breath gone and all her ill-fated lust with it, her unseeing eyes would watch as Amélie explored herself with shaking fingers…

Such thoughts she had. Such dreams that occupied her last night and the night before, building pressure within her like a geyser ready to overflow its bounds.

And now the dream is the thing that has ended up dying, and she is left aimless and _irritated _and on-edge.

Albrecht whines and presses his cold nose into her idle hand. She pets along his snout and long ears, looking down at him more softly than she ever observes other people. The dogs are as lost as their mistress, wandering about their enclosure and occasionally whining or sniffing the air. They, too, failed to sate their hunger, and though they are worn after an evening spent sprinting through the woods, there was no catch to satiate their desire for prey.

Sombra has fled the estate. Her foolish acquiescence to play the game was insincere after all. Whatever mite of respect Amélie gained for her after the trap of the night previous has all but disappeared. She herself was foolish to expect a different outcome.

She throws her loyal boys their dinner and leaves them to wrestle and chase each other and heads in for a quiet night and a glass of wine. Perhaps a quiet morning is more accurate; it’s well past midnight now.

Her bedroom windows are wide, letting the wind blow the curtains about. A storm is rolling in; perhaps she will wake up to rain. She fetches her nightgown and heads for the bathroom.

She spends a long time in front of the mirror. Her thoughts are tangled and refuse to unravel cleanly. She wanted something clean. She wanted something beautiful. Now she has nothing at all but this huge empty _space _and the dumb beasts outside who obey her because they have been bred and trained to. What a fangless life.

Her coat comes unbuttoned and she abandons it on the tiled floor. Her vest follows suit, and then her breeches. She pulls shirt and bra off with a sigh of relief and then lets her hair down to comb. That is the true relief, the pressure on her scalp lessened. The comb is heavenly. There is something enjoyable still in these moments, mindless as they are.

With her hair down and combed into a sheet of silk and her hunting garb traded for her simple white nightgown, she returns to her room and closes the door behind her.

The knife presses into her neck. There is an arm around her waist and hot lips on her ear.

“I’ll take my reward now, _s’il vous plaît,_” Sombra breathes.

* * *

Amélie Lacroix goes rigid under her touch. She bares her teeth like she’s a hunting dog and glares at Sombra as best she can out of the corner of her eye. Sombra only laughs, maneuvers herself without lifting the knife so she is pressed to Amélie’s front and forcing her against the door. 

She looks less like a huntress and more like a pretty young housewife, dressed as she is in loose white ruffles and lace and with her hair falling smooth behind her. She hasn’t showered, though, and the scent of the woods and of her own sweat clings to her. Sombra does not find it repellent; much the opposite.

“You _cheated_,” Amélie spits, looking angrier than Sombra has ever seen her. Her blood thrums and the space between her thighs is hot and sticky. She is drunk on victory and lust and exhilaration.

“How did I cheat, Madame Lacroix?” she asks in mock offense.

Amélie apparently has no answer to that, although her furious eyes and gritted teeth continue to display all her anger for her.

“I never left the grounds. Never needed to. Just admit it, Madame Lacroix—I outsmarted you. You and all your _boys, _in your element, and I’m still the one on top.”

She lets her tongue play around her lips, presses her body a bit harder against Amélie’s. She can feel her warmth, the softness of her breasts, the muscle of her abdomen. Hers. Rightfully hers. She didn’t even _need_ to cheat.

Amélie’s nostrils flare, but her cheeks are dark and her pupils huge. She is too prideful to say it, Sombra knows. But then she tilts her chin up, almost pressing her throat into the knife, and looks haughtily up at the woman pinning her to the wall.

“Take it then,” she says grandly. “Your _reward._”

Sombra needs no more invitation. Her hungry mouth crashes into Amélie’s, and she is pleasantly surprised by how Amélie’s mouth falls open for her, how her breath comes in short little gasps and how her tongue is only too eager to slide against Sombra’s. She _bites, _too, sucks at Sombra’s lip in a way that has no right to be as arousing as it is.

“Fuck,” Sombra mumbles. She flips her knife closed without looking and shoves it into her pocket. If Amélie notices the blade is gone, she does not react.

Then Sombra is grabbing at all that dark, silky hair, softer than she could have ever imagined, and when she _pulls _Amelie’s head tilts back and a sigh escapes her, a truly beautiful sound. Sombra goes for her neck, pale and pretty, driven half-mad by the thought of bruises rising there. _Hers. Hers…_

“Not even the courtesy to take me to bed?” Amélie drawls. Her voice is steady; Sombra will have to do something about that.

“Not really one for courtesy, Madame Lacroix,” she mumbles, and bites again at her pulse. This time, she is rewarded by a catch in Amélie’s voice.

“You’re an animal,” Amélie breathes, and Sombra tugs her hair again.

“Isn’t that why you were hunting me? And how the tables have turned. Looks like I’m the one who wound up _eating._”

She grinds her knee up, _hard_, between Amélie’s thighs, and the stifled little noise of pleasure she receives in return is enough that she would repeat the past three days in a heartbeat just to hear it again. But the separation of her pants and Amélie’s nightgown is too much, so she brings her hand down instead to press the fabric in and cup the other woman’s cunt.

She _is _wearing panties, Sombra is somewhat disappointed to discover, but she still roughly rubs at her through the cloth and watches Amélie’s hips jerk in stunted movements against her hand.

“Who’s the animal?” she asks, taunting. Then, spurred on by Amélie’s half-closed eyes and quick, sharp breaths, “Who’s the bitch in heat?”

“I would have liked you better dead at my feet,” Amélie spits, though the words are softened by the moan that follows as Sombra curls her fingers, pressing in at Amélie’s entrance through the cloth.

“Yeah, but you like this too, don’t you?” Sombra murmurs, licking a line across the bruises she’s sucked into Amélie’s neck. She peppers kisses up her jaw and nips at her ear, and then Amélie’s hand is grabbing her neck and bringing her head down and they’re kissing again, even more fevered than before. Amélie rolls her hips in circles and Sombra rubs her hand back and forth and wishes there wasn’t all this cloth in the way so she could feel how desperate Amélie is.

“I don’t—like—_you—_” Amélie manages in between wet kisses. Her hands grasp at Sombra’s shoulders, waist, as if seeking to hold on to any part of her.

Sombra pulls back to look at Amelie’s wet lips, her messy hair, her neck and collarbones peppered with bruises. She’s beautiful and Sombra is hot and dizzy and drunk with want for her. Her hand moves rougher, harder; she searches for Amélie’s clit through the fabric to tease it roughly.

“That’s all right,” she whispers amiably. “You don’t have to like me. Just come for me, _Madame._”

Amélie _whines, _so desperate, and her nails scratch at Sombra’s neck, and she rubs herself hard on Sombra as she chases her own pleasure.

And then she does, her breath breaking into a series of moans and her pretty lips splitting open and her eyes glazed and her head thrown back and her hips driving again and again against Sombra’s hand to pull every last bit of pleasure she can out of it.

Sombra thinks she can feel dampness on her fingers now. Her mouth is watering. Rather than alleviating her lust, she just feels hungrier and hungrier. Amélie is wearing far too much, she decides, and something must be done about that.

Amélie is limp in the afterglow, lolling back against the wall, and she does not resist as Sombra leads her by the arm and gives her a shove onto the bed. She looks back over her shoulder to glare, though, like a cat. But Sombra’s attention is more for her ass stuck up in the air, and her knees spread, like she’s presenting herself.

“Hope you aren’t too attached to this thing,” Sombra says breezily as she joins her on the bed. She gropes in her pocket for the knife.

“Somehow I get the feeling you don’t actually care.” There is acid in Amélie’s tone, but she rolls onto her back and settles back onto her elbows and gazes regally as she waits.

“Well, nah,” Sombra concedes, flipping the knife open and slicing gracelessly into the hem of Amélie’s nightgown. “You can always buy another. But I like when you complain.”

The honesty slips out, and she is worried she has said too much. But then she grips the cloth hard in her hands, and it rips in such a _satisfying _way, and little by little Amélie’s long pale legs come into view. Sombra briefly abandons her task to grip Amélie’s ankle in one hand. Her fingers play up the smooth calf, feeling the surprising musculature there. She brushes her knee and then trails lightly over her thigh. Amélie twitches under her touch, sensitive because or in spite of the orgasm.

Her panties are pale, perhaps white or blue, but the color is difficult to make out in the dim light. Dark hair peeks out from the edges, wild and curly. There is a dark, wet stain in the center like a sign showing exactly where she wants to be touched. Sombra strokes feather-light fingers over the lacy trim and then presses at the spot.

Yes, she’s gratified to find, the woman underneath her is _soaking._

“You could ask me to take it off,” Amélie says. Her voice is, perhaps, a bit weaker.

Sombra resumes her tearing. The stitching around the waistline offers some resistance but is easily dispatched with the knife.

“Ah, but where would be the fun—in—”

Her voice trails away and her hands still. There is little of the nightgown left to rip; she’s torn it almost up to the neckline. She supposes what she sees makes sense; sleeping in a bra is the opposite of comfortable. But the panties made her think, and perhaps she just wasn’t, isn’t, prepared for the sight of Amélie’s breasts laid out naked before her.

“Like what you see?” Amélie asks, and there is amusement in her tone, but Sombra doesn’t care. She’s too busy drinking in the sight before her. All that pale skin, appearing almost white in the moonlight. Little stray dark hairs in the valley between her breasts stand out against that paleness. There are faint stretch marks on the undersides, like lightning, like waves on the lake outside. And her areolas, dark and broad, and her nipples rising firm and hard above them.

“Yes,” she offers briefly, and she wraps her lips around a nipple. She sucks and then _bites _and Amélie makes a noise under her. She feels a hand wrapping in her hair and she expects to be pulled away, but instead it holds her in place, pushes her insistently down. Sombra has no complaint. Her teeth worry and toy with the little nub as if in some obscene mockery of breastfeeding. God, Amélie would look good with barbells arraying her nipples. Sombra wonders if she’s amenable to clamps, wonders if she’s ever tried them. She brings up her hand to occupy the other breast, to pinch at the other nipple and roll it between finger and thumb.

Amélie is rocking underneath her, her hips thrusting up to where Sombra’s legs have her bracketed in. She’s making such nice sounds, pretty whimpers like she’s trying not to moan but she can’t keep her breath entirely contained. Sombra thinks that perhaps she could do this all day, play with Amélie’s breasts and listen to her get off on it, but the woman underneath her is not the only one hot and bothered.

She needs to sit up to get her pants off, though the look Amélie gives her is almost enough to make her sink down again at once. Amélie’s hair, so neat and well-combed when she emerged from the bathroom, is a tangled mess spread across her pillowcase. The marks Sombra has already left on her stand out on her skin like jewelry, and her left nipple gleams with saliva.

Sombra manages the zipper and then awkwardly kicks and pulls her pants off. Her panties follow without ceremony, and then, as she’s undressing anyway, she pulls off shirt and bra and tosses them carelessly onto the floor.

Amélie’s eyes travel up and down Sombra’s newly-exposed front, and Sombra shivers at the pleasant feeling of being observed. Amélie’s gaze lingers at her breasts and the neon-green studs adorning her nipples, and then at her belly button with its tiny skull.

“Show me your—move your hair,” Amélie commands.

It sends a thrill through Sombra, and she’s willing enough to obey this time, parting her bush with her fingers to show off her slit.

“Ah.” Amélie frowns, disappointed. “I thought you would have that pierced too.”

“_That_?” Sombra echoes. She is amused by Amélie’s apparent reluctance to let the vulgar words into her mouth. Is she so unfamiliar with the language of her own body? “C’mon, say it.”

Amélie rises to the bait, which Sombra finds both endearing and disappointing.

“I thought you’d have a hole in your _clitoris _to match the rest of you,” she says, _almost _icily enough that it isn’t sexy. Almost.

“Well, if you’d like me to,” Sombra says, petting at her own clit, “maybe I’d do it. And we could do yours to match. You’d look pretty with _these _pierced, anyway—”

She returns her hands to Amélie’s breasts and pinches both her nipples. She watches how Amélie’s eyebrows furrow and she bites her lips into her mouth and her hips cant upward like she’s begging for more, and Sombra decides she’s been wound up long enough.

Amélie gives a sharp intake of breath as Sombra grinds down against her bare thigh. She can’t resist a groan of relief at the feeling of _pressure _where she needs it, and if she rolls her hips to smear her wetness across Amélie’s skin, well, nobody but her needs to know.

“You really are a dog! Humping my leg, desperate to get off, you—”

“Sure,” Sombra interrupts, her breathing a bit ragged now. “I’m the dog. But I caught you.”

She finds the knife in the sheets where she left it, and the lace of Amélie’s panties cuts away as cleanly as her nightgown, and Sombra sucks her breath through her teeth like that will sate her thirst.

Amélie’s folds glint dark pink and red like wine. Her lips are large enough to form a sloppy heart around her entrance, looking like an invitation. But most noticeable of all is her slick, how _wet _she is, dripping from her entrance and smeared across her labia and gleaming in sticky strands tangled in her hair. It all shines in the moonlight, and Sombra takes several moments just to take it in, just to appreciate this sight of her. In that moment she is hard-pressed to imagine anything more beautiful.

Amélie spreads her legs, the coy smile on her face saying that she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Come,” she wheedles. “Lick, like the good dog you are.”

Sombra would love not to obey, but her other desires outweigh that in this moment, so she lowers her head and feels Amélie’s thighs close in again as if seeking to trap her there. The knife she discards in the sheets again; her other hand wraps fervently around Amélie to dig into the plump flesh of her ass.

Amélie tastes _good, _light, with enough musk that Sombra licks and licks as if to fetch every last drip. Amélie is wet like she hasn’t been eaten out since her husband died. God, maybe she hasn’t. Sombra aches at the thought, and she decides enough is enough and she shoves a hand down to take care of herself.

She’s wet enough herself that it’s hard to get friction, but she wets up her fingers and smears around her clit anyway and groans right into Amélie’s cunt at the relief. She resumes licking, and Amélie’s slick makes each stroke slippery and easy, just wetness and heat. Sombra buries her nose in her curls of hair and feels Amélie’s thighs tense when she nudges her clit. She leaves sloppy kisses in her folds, bites and sucks at her lips and clit, circles her entrance with her tongue.

She rubs herself in sharp circles and lets her mouth wander lower. Amélie twitches, but she proceeds anyway, drowning in lust and in the smell of Amélie’s musk and sweat. Somehow the smell manages to be so much stronger than the taste, and Sombra finds that fascinating.

When she kisses and then licks Amélie’s anus, a hand suddenly is gripping her hair and pulling her up. She goes, reluctant, and stares down at Amélie’s face. Her cheeks are still blushing and her eyes are still dark, but she has one eyebrow cocked.

“You are _filthy_,” she says, and the way her tongue caresses the last word sends a thrill through Sombra.

“Yeah, I am,” she concedes, nonchalant. “But you know what I think, Madame Lacroix?”

She pulls her fingers away from her own clit somewhat reluctantly, but she needs them for balance as she deliberately presses her hips down and grinds onto Amélie’s thigh.

“You just keep calling me dirty, calling me a dog, because it gets you off. Because you want me to be those things. And if I’m an animal, what does that make you, coming for me? Asking for my mouth?”

She doesn’t give Amélie a chance to answer before she’s leaning down to pin her to the bed and kiss her again. This time they’re both undressed, and Amélie’s skin is hot and a little sticky against her own, but Sombra can feel her breasts soft and her nipples hard and she wouldn’t trade this feeling for the world. Amélie’s hand remains threaded in her hair, and her fingertips rub where her long hair gives way to bristles. Sombra sighs into her mouth and thinks she could stay like this forever.

Amélie is slender, but there is hard muscle under the skin of her thigh. Sombra rolls herself against it and bites Amélie’s lip, easing into a suck. Amélie gets her back, harder, and then licks at her tongue. Those pretty lips that so captivated Sombra before will be puffy and sore by the morning.

She shifts, drags her cunt up Amélie’s leg like she’s marking her. Then, without looking, she feels the tickle of her hair, and the _wet, _and she pushes down again.

Amélie’s folds are less satisfying than her thigh, too slippery to offer any real friction. But the _idea _of it is intoxicating enough to make up for it. Their nectar mixing, their clits nudging each other, hair tickling. It makes Sombra think of what it would be like to fuck her with a toy or a strap-on. Would the lady of the estate, always so refined, so dignified, stick her ass in the air and beg for it with her slit dripping and her voice hoarse?

Sombra is so close. She’s so fucking close, but she almost doesn’t want to end it. She wants to savor this moment forever.

She has to break off the kiss when she moves to Amélie’s other thigh. She grinds down _hard _and groans into the still air of the bedroom. Amélie’s nails are pinpricks of pain in her hips, and she realizes that the other woman is lifting her leg to help, moving it minutely up and down, and her lips are twitching upward as she watches Sombra ride her—

“_Fuck—fuck—_” Sombra’s breath abandons her as she comes. Her back arches as she pushes down onto Amélie’s thigh as hard as she can. Her eyes close and her world narrows to her clit and the thrums of pleasure as she takes her proper reward from their little game.

It does not last long enough, but as she pants and her eyes slowly open, she sees Amélie’s catlike eyes fixed on her, and the promise of more to come consoles her.

“Bitch in heat,” Amélie says, echoing her earlier words. She seems to be turning them over in her mouth, considering them, rather than spitting them in anger as she did earlier.

Sombra, still breathing hard, still luxuriating in the afterglow, looks Madame Lacroix up and down again. Her hair is spilling across the pillow like black ink. Flushed spots down her neck and on her breasts show the lurid trail where Sombra bit and sucked; they will be bruises tomorrow. Her nipples are still erect, one even still glinting with saliva, as if inviting her back down to torment them further.

But Sombra’s attention is mostly for the shiny wet smears across Amélie’s thighs. Again she feels...possessive. Hungry. Powerful.

“You look good like that,” she manages, her voice a little husky. “Marked up for me.”

Suddenly the mood changes. Amelie’s gaze sharpens, and her slight smile vanishes, and Sombra’s clit, still recovering from her orgasm, twitches.

“You didn’t finish the job,” Amélie says. She moves so fast that Sombra, still boneless and out of it, is taken by surprise and unable to put up any resistance against the hands gripping her and pulling her down onto the sheets. In an instant their positions are reversed, and she is staring up at Amélie, whose hair cascades down to tickle her face and neck and shoulders.

She’s gorgeous from this angle. Sombra wants to pull her down for a kiss. But then—

“Ah,” Amélie whispers. Her hand cups Sombra’s cheek, disturbingly gentle. Her thumb strokes over the cut she made below Sombra’s eye. It’s scabbed over, but Amélie scratches her nail against the scab as if seeking to pull it off. Sombra can’t help flinching.

“It’s all right,” Amélie coos, like she’s speaking to her hounds. Sombra can’t see what her other hand is doing until Amélie raises the knife.

Sombra’s mouth goes a bit drier. Perhaps it was a mistake to bring the blade into the equation. Perhaps it was a mistake to think the danger had passed.

She doesn’t _think _Amélie would murder her in cold blood in her bed, but when she sees the gleam in her eyes and the smile that transforms her face, she isn’t so sure.

“Do you cut up your dogs?” she asks, hoping it comes out casually.

“No,” Amélie says. “My dogs behave.”

The knife rests on Sombra’s cheekbone for a few seconds, just a few millimeters away from the scab. And then there is a brief instant of sharp pain, leaving her eyes watering, and then there are two parallel lines.

“You are right,” Amélie muses, her eyes fixed on the new incision. “How beautiful, to mark you up.”

Sombra wants to quibble about how her marks are the kind of thing one could expect from a lover, and that she never took a fucking _blade _to Amélie’s skin, but her words run dry as Amélie leans down and licks over the cut like an animal.

It stings. It soothes. Mostly it irritates, because Sombra does not want to find it exactly as arousing as she does.

“Facial wounds are satisfying,” Amélie tells her, matter-of-fact, between licks. “They bleed quite a bit.”

So Sombra’s not the only one getting off on this, then.

The knife travels down the contour of her cheek and slides along her jawbone, digging in but no longer cutting. Sombra’s body is taut and her heart pounding as she waits for that extra bit of pressure.

It comes on her neck, dangerously close to her jugular. Amélie takes her _time, dragging _the knife through Sombra’s skin like there is art in it, like the precision matters. Sombra arches her back and fists her hands in the sheets. She’s unsure whether she’s bracing against the pain or the pleasure.

Again, Amélie’s mouth follows. Her teeth latch on either side of the cut and she sucks and licks at the wound until Sombra feels less like she’s making a hickey and more like she’s trying to drain her veins from the throat.

“You’re a fucking vampire, huh?”

“No,” Amélie says, finally lifting her mouth from Sombra’s neck with a wet _pop _that resounds between her thighs. “You’re fucking a vampire.”

She smiles when Sombra rolls her eyes. A second later, when she feels the knife pressing cold against her chest, she almost regrets it.

The next cut is not over quickly. The blade seems almost to glide, slow centimeter by centimeter, as it splits her skin along her sternum, between her breasts, all the way down to her belly button. Sombra’s skin is tingling and her mouth is a desert and her hands have begun to ache from the effort of clenching the sheets hard.

Her clit is pulsing. Her cunt is aching.

Amélie licks the same trail, and Sombra cannot resist bringing up a hand to tangle in that sleek black hair. Her wet skin feels icy in the night breeze. The cuts throb with a dull pain, less acute than even a paper cut. She’s never had someone cut her up in bed before, and she’s a bit unnerved by how much she doesn’t hate it.

“I like these,” Amélie says. She nudges one piercing and briefly wraps her lips around the other. Sombra jerks underneath her. She needs to bite her lips together to keep from moaning or begging or doing something else stupid. She will not encourage the woman atop her.

Amélie does not need encouragement. She sits upright and then turns, and Sombra smirks for an instant at what’s about to happen before Amélie’s knees come to a rest on either side of her head, and she sits.

It is hot and wet and stifling. Sombra can hardly breathe, and each quick breath in through her nose is saturated in the smell of sweat and musk and the hint of piss. Somehow the scents are intoxicating. Somehow the idea of Amélie riding her face is a pleasing one. So Sombra lifts her chin and lets her face be buried, her nose and tongue deep in Amélie’s folds as slick coats the lower half of her face.

“_Yes_,” Amélie says, and rolls her hips. Her voice is muffled with her thighs wrapped so firmly about Sombra’s ears. “_Good _dog.”

Sombra nips at her clit in retribution, but the instant of pain seems only to spur Amélie on. She rides Sombra’s face ruthlessly, dragging her folds back and forth across her face. Sombra holds onto her thighs and digs her nails in, scratching and squeezing at the flesh under her fingers. She licks and bites and sucks Amélie’s labia, pulling them one at a time into her mouth before kissing at her clit. The taste of Amélie’s cunt is almost seductive, leaving her coming back for more again and again in hope that the next lick will satiate. The wetness just keeps dripping from her, and Sombra doesn’t know any longer where her saliva ends and the other woman’s nectar begins.

She enjoys this. Amélie Lacroix, the Widowmaker, is seated on her face, getting herself off on Sombra’s mouth. What isn’t to like?

The cut on her cheek throbs as flesh and hair drag against it, but the pain just makes her feel more tense. The limpness of her orgasm is long gone and she is primed for another. Rubbing her thighs awkwardly together fails to satisfy, but before she can reposition a hand to get herself off, she feels silky hair tickling the inside of her legs.

She gasps. Her clit twitches and heat pools between her thighs. She forgets to lick again until Amélie grinds down on her face.

She does not expect the bite of the knife on the inside of her thigh, but when her hips jerk upward she cannot say whether it is due to pleasure or pain. The blood wells up so quickly, and it too tickles as it rolls down her leg before Amélie’s tongue catches it.

When the bite follows, she knows it’s pleasure. She thrusts, knowing she’s desperate and not caring. All she can do is bare herself to Amélie’s mercy, if such a thing exists. It is difficult to imagine Amélie going down on her; frankly she always imagined the Widowmaker as something of a pillow princess. But now she is biting hickeys up her thigh, closer and closer to her core.

Amélie says something, Sombra thinks, but either it’s in French or it’s just too quiet to hear with these _thighs _around her ears, but the next instant she feels something very cold sliding between her lips, and then Amélie’s mouth _is _on her.

She fervently licks and sucks at Amélie the best she can, the lewdest sort of kisses, and her nails unconsciously dig in harder into her legs, because it is all she can do, because she doesn’t have the breath left to moan. Her hips are rocking now, as Amélie delicately kisses at her, rolling her clit with her tongue and slowly licking across her entrance.

Her second orgasm hits her _hard. _She spasms between the sheets and the weight of Amélie. The mouth withdraws, but mercifully Amélie’s fingers replace it, rubbing her hard clit through the climax. She forgets to move her jaw, forgets everything but these few instants of pleasure drawn out of her by the mouth of Amélie Lacroix.

She’s feeling lightheaded, because of the orgasm and the lack of air in her current position, but Amélie’s thighs tighten and she knows it’s not over yet.

Amélie _rides _her face properly now, so hard that there is little for Sombra’s mouth to actually do. She feels more like a toy, something hot and solid enough that Amélie can get off, and that is hot enough in its own right. She breathes in as deep as she can through her nose, relishing the thick scent.

It straddles the border between disgusting and intoxicating. Pain and pleasure. Predator and prey.

Amélie comes with a long wordless cry, her frenzied desperation slowing into shuddering, lazy rolls of her pelvis. Sombra drags her tongue through the wetness again and again, but she thinks that she could eat her out for hours and find no end to it. She presses a final kiss and suck to that pretty little clit, wet and shiny under its dark reddish hood. With any luck, tonight won’t be the last time she gets her mouth on it.

At last Amélie pulls herself off and collapses on the sheets beside her. She is a mess, sweaty and marked up and hair dirty, but still beautiful. Sombra wants to kiss her, but she’s tired and sore and still catching her breath.

“You like the knife,” Amélie muses, almost mumbling into the pillow.

“You would too,” Sombra says, maybe a bit defensively, jutting her chin forward in a half-assed attempt to point at the marks on Amélie’s throat.

Amélie blinks slowly, like a contented cat. She says something else, which Sombra just manages to hear, and then closes her eyes again.

Sombra can’t stop herself from grinning. She feels giddy, even as she also feels exhausted.

_Perhaps next time._

* * *

“How did your husband die?” Sombra asks, after many long minutes of silence. Whatever her exhaustion, sleep eludes her; somehow she still feels the hint of a threat. She didn’t get this far in life through a lack of paranoia.

Amélie, apparently still awake, laughs, props herself up against the pillows and smiles down at Sombra. Her smile is beautiful. Her hair and face and breasts are stained silver by the moonlight falling on them. So entrancing, even now. Sombra has gorged herself, but still she is hungry.

“On the second night,” Amélie says.

Sombra’s sweat feels abruptly cold on her skin. She parts her lips as if to say something, as if the air hasn’t vanished from her lungs, as if this isn’t a surprise. It shouldn’t be, really.

“The dogs always did hate him,” Amélie coos, and she leans down to capture Sombra’s mouth with the same kiss that seduced and condemned the dead man of whom she speaks.

Sombra only hesitates a moment before returning the kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments greatly appreciated!


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